


Sexless Sex

by Nonymos



Series: The Marvel Fractions [3]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Character, BDSM, Bondage, Bruce Feels, Bruce is gay, Clint Feels, Clint and Bruce are together, Clint is straight, Cuddling & Snuggling, Do you see the issue here?, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fraction's Hawkeye, Hawkguy, Hulkeye - Freeform, Insecure Clint, Kate and Kurt are best bros, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mixed Orientation Couple, Oral Sex, Smut, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1516949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Bruce take a well-deserved break, make tea, make out, and try out some private stuff which is <em>totally</em> none of your business, Kate Bishop.</p><p>Or, Bruce and Clint failing to see where the problem is in being a mixed orientation couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, readers! This lil' fic here is taking place in the Marvel Fractions 'verse; if you haven't read the first two installments, you're gonna be spoiled big time and you might miss a couple of references, but nothing that will ruin your enjoyment if you're just here for the Hulkeye fluff. 
> 
> Clearing up a few things before we start: truth be told, Bruce's sexuality isn't actually super clear—maybe he realized he was gay after Betty, or maybe he's bisexual, or demisexual, or pansexual, or whatever-sexual. Clint and he never talked about it because they simply don't give a shit. Point is, Bruce is sexually attracted to guys, and Clint is not. But this was too long to write in the tags. ^^  
> Speaking of tags, the "Asexual Character" one is here 'cause Clint is effectively being asexual in his current relationship, even though he's been sexually attracted to women in the past.
> 
> That being said: enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

Clint felt just _worn._ He hadn’t slept much for the past week, and when he closed his eyes, he could still see the wallpaper of that hotel room like it had been printed on the back of his eyelids. The mission was done; and this wasn’t SHIELD anymore, he probably wouldn’t get another thing before two or three months. He hoped. He just wanted to…

 _Take a nap_ was what he usually called it. But during the past few days, the words that had been running through his head were _home._

He wanted to go home.

“Here we are,” Natasha said, smoothly landing on the roof.

The last-generation Quinjets were so silent Clint would have made more noise going up the stairs on foot. He nodded wearily and grabbed his quiver before stepping out. The darkness of an early night was slowly swallowing the familiar skyline he’d gazed at so many times from his roof.

“Clint,” Natasha called. “Good work back there.”

“Thanks, Tash,” he said in a yawn.

“Banner waiting for you?”

He froze for a second, then turned to give her a small smile. “Man, I hope so.”

This was a half-lie; Bruce had promised him. _I’ll be there._ Still—still. Clint couldn’t remember ever having someone home waiting for him. And he trusted Bruce, but last time Bruce hadn’t meant to leave either, and yet he still had. So…

Clint didn’t stay and watch the Quinjet go away—he just went down the stairs groggily, and knocked on his own door without turning on the lights in the staircase.

He waited for one minute which felt like an eternity. No one came. He was actually about to start looking for his keys when the door swung open.      

“Sorry,” Bruce said, wide-eyed and curls ruffled.

Clint took him in. He was breathless, and he had dark rings under his eyes like he hadn’t slept a lot, either; but he was significantly less thin, and for once, his pants weren’t three sizes too big. He was barefoot, too; the darkened apartment smelled faintly of tea, and Clint could see a notebook of scribbled equations left open on the couch under a solitary lamp.

 “I thought I heard—,” Bruce panted, “but I wasn’t sure I—I’m sorry I didn’t—”

Clint stepped inside, wrapped his arms around Bruce and kissed him.

Bruce stayed frozen for a split second, then huffed a small, soft laugh against his lips, and kissed back.

“Hey,” Clint said.

“Hey,” Bruce breathed. He squeezed him tight. “Welcome home.”

 

*

 

Clint had no idea what to call Bruce, or what Bruce should call him. Boyfriends? They were too old for this. Partners? That was what he called Katie—and Nat. Husbands? _Seriously._ He didn’t really care about all this shit anyway. All he knew was that he’d never been so happy and that Bruce and he were a thing and he didn’t know _what_ thing and that was fine by him. By them both. Besides, they weren’t even having sex.

Except when they were.

They’d left it at that awkward blowjob in one of Stark Tower’s bathrooms and stayed platonic for the whole summer, but a few weeks after Clint’s last-minute mission, he found himself having to report on the Helicarrier, and was very surprised to find Bruce already there.

“Agent Barton,” Bruce said, glancing at him before going back to his paperwork.

Clint nodded, schooling his features into blandness. “Doctor Banner.”

He looked around the table. Tony must be playing hooky as usual; Steve was there, Natasha, too, then it was just Hill, Mockingbird, and a bunch of other people who didn’t know about Bruce and Clint bunking together. Fury was leading the meeting, looking exasperated as usual. During the whole two hours, most people tried to ignore the tension of having Bruce Banner in the room; Bruce and Clint, though, were working hard on pretending to only barely know each other. It was actually too easy; it reminded Clint of the days when Bruce was just _the Hulk,_ or _Doctor Banner_ at best. He’d known him for quite some time before falling in love with him. It was a strange thought.

When they finally all got up, Banner folded his glasses, then looked up at Clint. “Agent Barton, do you have a minute?”

Fury cast them a look of worry, but didn’t say anything—he was working hard on making all the Avengers cooperate with SHIELD again, and that included not following Banner around with an assault rifle loaded with gamma dampeners all the time. Besides, in terms of Hulk-prodding, Clint was slightly less alarming than Tony in Fury’s book.

Clint followed Bruce into a darkened lab and closed the door behind them.

“What’s—”

Bruce pushed him against the wall and kissed him so deeply that Clint forgot to breathe for a minute. Bruce pressed against him in the dark, hands slipping under Clint’s shirt to run up his sides and stomach, then grab his ass. Honestly—Clint would have been mildly uncomfortable if any other man had done this to him, but the suffocating happiness he felt every time Bruce was around was enough to turn it into the most _awesome_ making-out session he’d ever had. And Bruce wanted him so _bad._ Clint kissed him hungrily, dizzy with all this—with how much Bruce _wanted_ him; with how unafraid he was to show it; with how hard he was…

“I’m—sorry,” Bruce panted, breaking the kiss. “I didn’t _mmph—”_

Clint kissed him hard and tugged at his belt, opening his pants; he pulled down the zipper and sank to his knees. He knew the drill by now, and even though he still wasn’t quite used to this, Bruce was so pent up it only took Clint a minute to make him come in his mouth, gasping and trying not to pull at Clint’s hair too hard.

“You can pull it,” Clint grinned at him when he was done. “I don’t mind.”

He tidied Bruce up then stood again, only for Bruce to wrap him in his arms once more; they breathed together for a while, gasping breaths which sounded like huffed laughs.

“So,” Bruce said after a while. “Wow. I hadn’t planned to join the Mile High Club today.”

“Neither did I, but it was awesome,”Clint grinned.

He meant it; still, when Bruce’s hand gingerly went down, Clint took it and repositioned it on his hip, shaking his head.

 “Sorry, man,” he shrugged. _“Status quo_ down there.”

Bruce nodded and looked down, rubbing Clint’s back a little.

“We should go back,” he said eventually.

 

*

 

Even Natasha’s hilariously ominous glare as she understood what they’d done—and Clint could almost read her thoughts, _really, Barton? That, now, here, with him?_ —wasn’t enough to uplift Bruce’s spirits about the whole thing. Clint could tell; he could read him pretty well by now. They went their separate ways leaving the Helicarrier, to preserve their secret for just a bit longer—Fury would find out one day, but Clint and Bruce had gotten pretty good at hiding stuff, especially personal stuff. Revealing you cared about someone was never good in this line of work.

Clint was the first to get to the apartment. Bruce still looked worried when he showed up not ten minutes later, and he didn’t speak much as they curled up on the couch to watch _Dog Cops_ , Clint’s head in his lap.

Eventually, Clint propped himself up on one elbow and grabbed the remote to turn off the TV.

“Hey,” he told Bruce, gently. “Don’t overthink it.”

“I’m not,” Bruce muttered. “I told you, it’s been so long for me. I forgot how it’s supposed to be anyway.”

He sighed. “Still, I’m pretty sure I should feel like a selfish jerk.”

Clint huffed and fell back down. “Look—if you really want to try, I guess I could close my eyes, lay back, and think of SHIELD. That didn’t come out right,” he added hurriedly when Bruce raised an eyebrow at him. “You know what I mean.”

Bruce laughed a little. “Yes. But that’s not what I want,” he went on, scratching Clint’s scalp. “I don’t want to force anything. This isn’t about achieving it at all costs—I don’t give a damn about it in itself.” He sighed. “I just… want it to be about you once in a while.”

“It’s always about me,” Clint said, turning on the side to push into Bruce’s touch. “That’s what you don’t understand. Anything is peanuts compared to this.”

“To what?” Bruce said quietly.

“This. You.”

Bruce said nothing, but his fingers twitched slightly in Clint’s hair before rubbing the base of his neck, then pressed something which almost made Clint curl under his hand like a cat. He sighed dreamily and pushed his face into Bruce’s thigh.

“Okay,” Bruce said in a low voice. “I’ll figure it out.”

Clint cracked an eye open. “Figure what out?”

“I want to sleep with you,” Bruce said. He smiled a little. “I’ll just have to find a way of doing it without the sex.”

Clint hummed, then shivered under Bruce’s clever fingers. “Well,” he drawled, “you— _God—_ you’re off to a good start.”

 

*

 

_“Would you like…?” Clint breathed, hand sneaking down._

_“Yes,” Bruce murmured shakily. “Aah—_ yes—”

“Does this feel good?”

“Yesss,” Clint moaned unashamedly. He swallowed, smiled at him and said, “I mean—yeah. God, yeah.”

He was lying down on his back, shirtless; Bruce was straddling him and unknotting all the tension from the corded muscles of Clint’s neck and shoulders. Clint was so mellow he felt like he could never move again.

He slowly raised his hands up, as if to prove himself wrong, then pulled Bruce down and kissed him, long and warm.

 

_They kissed hard and hot, and Clint’s hand slipped between Bruce’s legs, palmed him, rubbed him through his jeans._

_“Nice pants,” he breathed in his ear._

_Bruce gasped a laugh, then arched with a strangled whine when Clint squeezed him. Bruce grabbed him like he was holding for dear life, and his nails scratched across Clint’s back._

_“Fuck, Clint,_ fuck—”

“Sorry about those,” Bruce winced when he rubbed Clint’s shoulder and caught sight of the scratch marks.

Clint huffed a laugh. “Don’t be. Love ‘em.”

Bruce’s hands stilled for a second.

“What do you like?” he asked.

Clint looked up hazily at him.

“What do you mean?”

 

_Sometimes Bruce really let go, really bucked and thrust into Clint’s throat and Clint couldn’t help remembering a few girls who’d choked the same way and glared up at him afterwards. Bruce was a lot more of a gentleman about it than Clint had been._

_“I’m sorry—” he pulled out at once, knelt down with him, “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—”_

_“Don’t be. Fuck, don’t be.” Clint grinned and wiped his mouth. “I love it when you_ lose it—“

 

“What do you like in bed?” Bruce asked softly. “With girls, I mean.”

Clint squirmed a little, then relaxed again when Bruce rubbed his shoulders and leaned down to kiss his jaw.

“I,” Clint mumbled. “You know, I’m not… sure. Aside from the obvious. The regular stuff, the actual, well, you know. Obviously, that feels good. The rest… I don’t know. Nothing. I’m pretty easy.”

He’d never really talked about sex. With anyone. He’d always fallen into bed with people; tip-toeing into it was new. Especially since the _regular stuff_ was definitely off the table for this one.

 

_“And that? That something you’d like?” Clint breathed, fingers slipping between Bruce’s thighs, prodding, trying it out._

_“God,” Bruce whined, bracing against him, “fuck, oh fuck, oh God, Clint, Clint you don’t have to—”_

_“If it’s gonna make you sound like this,” Clint grinned, “I_ definitely—”

           

“Alright, so what do you like with me, then?” Bruce asked softly. “When we’re in bed like this?”

“I…” Clint hesitated, eyes half-lidded. “You’re so good at…” He moaned a little when Bruce’s hands rubbed his shoulders and neck again. “That. Of course, that. But I also really like to—when we—”

“When we?”

“Hug,” Clint breathed. “I want to hug you all the time.” He blinked a little, lazily. “Okay, that was lame. Jesus. Sorry.”

Bruce laughed under his breath. “It really wasn’t.”

 

_“That was.” Bruce was still breathless. “Clint, that was. That was.”_

_“Yeah, for me too,” Clint mumbled. “That_ was—”

 

Bruce slowly stretched on top of Clint and lowered himself down, weighing down on his whole body. Clint let out a hazy sound.

“That feels good?”

“Yeah,” Clint said.

He felt really weird. In a great way. Really great in a weird way. He felt like he was drifting off.

“When you said you didn’t mind…” Bruce murmured.

“’Bout wha’?” Clint mumbled.

 

_"It’s not just that,” Clint protested. “It’s better than that. No—hey, I wouldn’t lie to you about this. I loved it. I don’t know why and I know it doesn’t show, not the way it should, but still. Just—giving you what you want. I love it.”_

“About me pulling your hair.”

“Oh. Mm,” Clint said noncommittally.

He had short hair anyway—kinda tough to pull on.

“Or me clawing at you.”

“Mm.” Right now, he was busy focusing on Bruce making him sink down the mattress, breathing with him, against him, around him. This weight on top of him, which felt heavier than the women he’d known, even though in truth Bruce was probably lighter than any of them at the moment…

“Do you like this?” Bruce murmured, running his hands up Clint’s arms.

“Yeah.”

“Do you like this?” A hand trailing in his hair, briefly pulling it, not too hard but _firm._

Clint shivered a little. “…Yes.”

“Do you like this?”

Bruce’s hands had closed around Clint’s wrists to pin them down above his head.

Clint thought about it.

He just felt so relaxed. He liked it. Bruce holding him down. Nothing more up to him. Nothing to worry about—not someone else’s pleasure, not even his own pleasure. Just—let himself _be_ there.

“Yes,” he breathed, very low, a little scared to admit it. “Yes.”

Bruce leaned down to kiss him, without letting go of his wrists.

“I think I’m starting to have a few ideas,” he murmured against Clint’s lips.

 

*

 

“Wow, boss. You look weird.”

“Weird how?”

Kate squinted at him, suspicious. “Actually human for once. Like you slept. Like you ate. Like you’re _normal.”_

Clint felt a little embarrassed. He did feel good. He felt—really good, as though he’d had a long night of great, _great_ sex. But there had been no sex involved, only that weird tipping of the world into this hazier, simpler place as Bruce held him down and kissed him for what had felt like hours.

“Clint.”

Clint startled when Kate snapped her fingers before his face. When he glanced at her, she was grinning from ear to ear. “So, wanna tell me _that_ story?”

“Hell no.”

Her arrow split Clint’s right in half and Clint’s arrow split hers seconds later.

“I can sneak in their room,” Kurt called from the ceiling where he was hanging upside-down. “Just saying.”

“Don’t you dare,” Clint said, glaring up. “I saved your life. I welcomed you back. I played beer pong near your half-dead body. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“Or I could ask the professor to scan his brain,” Kurt went on, tail distractedly batting against the wall.

“Not sure Xavier would ever recover,” Kate objected.

“Ah, true.”

“Hey!”

Man, they weren’t listening to him.

           

*

 

“All good?”

“Yeah,” Clint mumbled. He flexed his arm with relief; the gamma dampening pens were really more comfortable than the blunt arrowheads he’d used at first. Less holes in his skin, less huge bruises which lasted for weeks. All good indeed.

He looked up at Bruce, who’d gotten up from where they were sitting on the carpet to put away the other pens in the fridge. Bruce stayed where he was for a second, then turned to Clint. He looked slightly nervous.

“Bruce?” Clint said. “I’m fine.”

“I know,” Bruce smiled, and this would have looked like nothing to anyone else’s eyes, but it had taken Bruce so much effort to be able to smile right after doing this.

He sat back on the carpet next to him. “I want to try something,” he said, “but I’m not sure you’ll like it.”

Clint shrugged. “Shoot.”

“Remember how I told you I’d tried a lot of things in the first few months following my accident?”

“Yeah.”

“That includes shibari.”

Clint frowned.

“Bondage,” Bruce explained.

Clint blinked, not sure how to react. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Bruce said. He rubbed the back of his head. “I, uh, I learned a few knots. The basics. But I could never do it properly. I didn’t have the p…” He smiled, a bit ruefully. “…the patience. And I could never be on the receiving side, either. Made me too nervous—you know… I don’t have a lot of great memories of being tied up.”

Clint winced.

“And I know it’s probably the same for you,” Bruce said. “So if you don’t want to try…”

“I’m okay,” Clint reassured him. “It’s just…”

He shrugged again. Bruce looked at him. “Just what?”

“I don’t know. Like, I’ve played around a little, but frankly, sex in handcuffs is overrated. Yay, I’m chained to the bed, I can’t touch you or change position anymore, and my nose itches but I can’t scratch it. I don’t see the appeal.”

Bruce huffed a silent laugh.

“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds stupid,” he admitted with a smile.

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Clint said hurriedly. “We can try. I want to try. I mean—”

“Is now a bad time?” Bruce asked.

Clint stared at him for a second. Bruce still had a little smile.

“Uh,” Clint stammered. “Uh, yeah. I mean no. I mean—sure. Now. If you want.”

 

*

 

Nervous. Clint was a little nervous, if he was completely honest with himself. Bruce had taken Clint’s shirt off, then gotten up and disappeared inside the bedroom; he came back with a set of smooth hemp ropes he dropped on the carpet before sitting behind Clint.

“Where did you get those?” Clint asked, unsure.

“I bought them yesterday,” Bruce said. “I told you I gave this a bit of thought.”

He wrapped Clint in his arms from behind and kissed his neck. Clint leaned into it; this he knew. Bruce’s arms around him never failed to calm him down.

“We can stop anytime,” Bruce said. “We don’t even have to start. Just say the word.”

“Yeah,” Clint said. “Okay. No. Let’s do this.”

He expected Bruce to tug his arms behind his back and strap him, but Bruce got up again and sat in front of Clint. He gently positioned Clint’s hands in a prayer position; he rubbed circles into them for a second, then he grabbed a rope and looped it around Clint’s wrists. He wrapped it several times so it didn’t even feel like rope in the end—more like a hand holding him, soft but firm. Clint thought it’d be more scratchy, but it was actually pretty gentle on his skin. Then Bruce looped the rope across the tie he’d just made, between Clint’s wrists, and made a knot.

“Blood flow?” he asked.

“Uh,” Clint blinked. “Oh—no, yeah, it’s good.”

“Can you free yourself?”

Clint tried, twisting his wrists in the tie, but although it wasn’t too tight, it wouldn’t unravel.

“I guess,” he still said, “if I broke one wrist or dislocated my thumbs.”

Bruce huffed and folded his fingers around Clint’s bound wrists. “Please don’t do that. Oh—I forgot.”

He got up and went to rummage in one of the kitchen’s drawers. Clint stayed sitting cross-legged on the carpet with his wrists bound in front of him; somehow, it was less awkward than it could have been. He studied Bruce’s work and found it oddly careful—oddly gentle for something which was meant to be constricting. This had nothing to do with all the times Clint had found himself tied up to a chair or a hook or whatever else.

“Do you have any scissors?” Bruce called from the kitchen.

“Uh, yeah,” Clint said, looking up. “Bottom left drawer.”

Bruce came back with a pair of big kitchen scissors which he set on the carpet near the ropes. Clint raised an eyebrow.

“You gonna cut me free?”

“Only if you freak out,” Bruce said.

“I won’t freak out. I’m fine.”

“I know,” Bruce smiled. “It’s more of a rule. You don’t rig without safety shears lying around.” He sighed, as though fighting back memories, then took the rope in hand again and slightly tugged at Clint’s wrists.

“Okay…” he mumbled to himself, and he knelt up to loop the rope above Clint’s left shoulder, making him press his bound hands over his heart. He wrapped the rope above the other shoulder, then around Clint’s torso and arms, pinning them more firmly against his chest; the tight embrace of the ropes felt…

…pretty good, Clint had to admit. Like a constant hug, just tight enough. Bruce was behind him at that point; he tugged one last time, tightening the entire harness, then rested against Clint and kissed his neck, grabbing Clint’s hand to lace their fingers together.

“You doing okay?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” Clint breathed.

“Feels weird?”

“A little,” Clint admitted, and they both huffed a laugh.

Bruce kissed him and Clint turned his head to fit their lips together. Bruce’s kiss made him melt inside as always, and he felt himself go mellow and relaxed in the ropes. It was weird—he was tied down, and this wasn’t _supposed_ to feel relaxing. But for the first time, he was immobilized by someone he trusted with his life. So he guessed it was okay.

Bruce was hugging him from behind, his right hand still tightly laced with Clint’s, his left hand roaming his body, brushing his sides, following the ropes and briefly massaging his shoulders, his neck, his scalp.

“Yeah—weird,” Clint slurred when they parted.

This time, Bruce froze against him. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know. I thought… this is _nice.”_ Clint licked his lips.“I didn’t think it’d be like this. I thought it was about forcing me down.”

“It’s not. God, it’s really not.” Bruce sounded scared now. “I can untie you if—”

“Hey,” Clint said, squeezing his hand. “No. I like it.” He realized he really did. “Go on. It’s okay.”

Bruce said nothing for a long while and Clint hoped he hadn’t ruined it. Then Bruce kissed him again. “This isn’t about forcing you down,” he repeated.

Clint closed his eyes. Bruce squeezed him tight, as tight as the ropes around his chest and arms. “You know I’m selfish,” he said in a low voice. “And this—this is about me knowing… that you won’t go anywhere. For a little while.”

Clint almost said that _he_ was the one always afraid that _Bruce_ would vanish, but when Bruce said that idiot thing about being selfish, Clint understood that this was about a different kind of _going away_ —about darkness in the corner of a dam house, and blood on Bruce’s hands as he begged Clint to _stay with me, look at me, God, Clint, please._

“I trust you,” Clint whispered.

He opened his eyes. When had he closed his eyes?

“Wanna go on?” he asked.

Bruce smiled and pressed his forehead against the back of Clint’s head. “Yeah.” He wrapped Clint in his arms again, and Clint’s eyes fell shut again.

Apparently, Bruce still had rope left from the harness—or maybe he’d tied two ropes together—because he made a few more loops around Clint’s lower chest, stomach, and hips, increasing that strangely pleasant feeling of being completely trapped, completely wrapped up, secured, safe. Then the rope wrapped itself around Clint’s thighs, went down around his calves and finished around his ankles. Clint knew he definitely couldn’t free himself this time with his legs trapped in a binder like that, and his torso so tightly wrapped. Bruce ran a hand through his hair and kissed his jaw.

“Still okay?”

“Yeah,” Clint mumbled, curling up against him.

“Blood flow? Hands, feet?”

“All good.”

This time, it was Bruce who asked. “Wanna go on?”

Clint felt weird. Weird in a way he wanted to explore. “…Yeah,” he said.

Bruce made him turn on his stomach and Clint managed easily enough, flattening his bound hands against his chest; Bruce got up and left him for a second, then came back with a pillow which he slipped under Clint’s head. Clint sighed deeply into it, then stretched a little with well-being when Bruce straddled him and rubbed his shoulders.

This still felt slightly odd; Clint had trouble letting go entirely. His every instinct kept jerking him out of it, because he was _trapped,_ he was vulnerable, this looked _bad—_ but every time he remembered that he was with Bruce, and there was nothing to be embarrassed about, not after what they’d done before.

Still, in some way, this was much more intimate than giving head. He’d never felt this exposed in his life.

But on the other hand… well, for starters, he _could_ let go. The ropes were there to catch him. To hold him in place. He didn’t have to worry about what he should or shouldn’t do—he knew he was exactly in the position Bruce wanted him. And Bruce was everywhere, hands slowly rubbing warmth into Clint’s muscles, lips pressing kisses against his neck and jaw. This was so strange, Clint thought vaguely. Bruce could do anything he wanted—Clint would have let him do anything at this point—and he chose to spend hours—it felt like hours—just touching him like that. Why would he focus on Clint so much? Why would anyone focus on Clint so much? Surely, that couldn’t do anything for Bruce—

“Still okay?” Bruce whispered in his ear.

Clint gave a floating answer which hovered away from him like a bubble of air wiggling up to the surface of deep, warm waters. Something tugged at his bound legs, elevating his feet, making him fold his knees until his ankles could be bound to his chest harness. Some kind of hogtie position. It felt even nicer this way. He was held in a straining stance, and yet he could relax completely in it. He was constantly aware of the ropes holding him down, of his open hands pressed against his own heart, which beat slow, so slow. Bruce’s hands never went away. He slowly ruffled Clint’s hair, rubbed his neck, made him turn his head for light kisses before letting him sink back into the pillow again.

This was… this was _amazing._ Fucking scary, too. Clint was astonished at how high he was. How far down at the same time. Lost inside and outside himself, at the mercy of Bruce’s gentleness. And Bruce was being so _nice._ This was a trust fall, and Clint had jumped, and Bruce was flawlessly catching him. Doing all this for him. Making him feel good, rubbing his shoulders, tracing his jaw. Why was he doing this? It felt so good. Like all he cared about was Clint. The ropes were tight, and Clint couldn’t move, and this meant Bruce didn’t care about the things Clint did or said, but cared about Clint only. Clint alone. Stripped of all the rest. _Weird._ And it should have been scary or awkward or annoying but it was _okay._ He was okay. He could breathe through it. He liked it. He loved it. He wanted…

He wanted… he wanted—more. Somehow. More. This wasn’t enough. Bruce wasn’t close enough. Clint wanted the warmth, wanted to thank him for—for how much he _cared_ —no one, no one had ever done this, ever taken the time to just be with Clint, just focus on him only, as though Clint was worth the trouble, this felt like one of these rare times when he hadn’t screwed up for once and people liked him enough to be nice to him…

Clint was surprised to realize he’d started shaking—very slightly, but undeniably. His heart was in his throat. His eyes were burning with tears. He swallowed and took a too loud breath, then turned his head into the pillow.

“Clint.” Bruce was there. He was so overwhelmingly _there._ “Hey. Clint.”

“I’m fine,” Clint said in a hoarse whisper. “It’s… can you…”

He had no idea how to say what he wanted—he only knew he felt suddenly terrified for some reason, like something was missing, or rather like he would miss something soon. When Bruce untied the rope connecting his ankles to his harness, he understood—he knew _it_ was coming to an end and he was scared of going back up; of finding out that he’d indulged in self-centered dreams again, and that he shouldn’t have gotten so worked up about a simple tie—as though anyone would—seriously, this was ridiculous—this was…

“Turn on your back,” Bruce whispered, and Clint wanted to say something, wanted to beg him not to release him; but he couldn’t talk. For some reason—he couldn’t bring himself to speak. He turned on his back, but when Bruce’s hand brushed up his wrist to start untying him, Clint gripped his fingers and squeezed hard.

Bruce stopped, then leaned down and kissed him, long and deep. Then he hoisted Clint up until he was resting with his back against Bruce’s chest, and wrapped his arms around Clint, and just stayed there, without trying to untie him anymore. Clint almost moaned in gratitude and buried his face into Bruce’s neck, curling up against him like a lost child. Bruce held him tighter.

They breathed together for a long, long time. Clint was vaguely surprised to realize that his mind was empty. It was as though the crowd of his thoughts had scattered away, leaving only one or two of them floating around in empty space. His breathing was very, very deep and measured. He felt good. He wanted to stay. He just wanted to stay.

Bruce hadn’t let go of Clint’s hand. Clint took a deep breath, felt his ribs strain against the ropes. It felt _good._ He felt good. All good.

Bruce kissed him again, then resumed untying him. Very slowly—Clint hadn’t looked, but he guessed his chest harness was complex enough. When the ropes on his legs went away, Clint crossed them and just waited for the rest of it to come off. Bruce undid the many loops which held Clint’s arms pressed against his chest; but after all the other knots were gone, he left his wrists bound together, and kept him close for a little longer. Clint settled against him with a deep sigh, and hummed a little when Bruce started petting his hair.

They stayed like this for another undetermined amount of time. Bruce finally untied Clint’s wrists; the first thing Clint did when he was free was throw his arms around Bruce’s neck and squeeze him tight.

He was really, really glad he could hold him right now. He felt like he was on the edge of something—he needed to hold onto something. And he could. He was vulnerable but he was also protected so it was good. It was all good.

“Thank you,” Bruce murmured.

Clint huffed into his neck. “Thank _you,”_ he corrected. “God. Thank you.”

 

*

 

Clint was still sitting on the carpet, peering at the rope marks on his wrists and arms. For some reason, he kinda liked them. He’d put his shirt back on and wrapped himself in a blanket Bruce had given him; he was grateful to see him return with two cups of tea.

“There.”

“Thanks,” Clint said with a brief smile.

Bruce sat in front of him and cleared his throat. “So,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Clint said instantly. “I have no idea what happened to me.”

Bruce huffed through his nose. “Don’t apologize,” he said gently. “That’s kind of the point of it all.”

“It is?” Clint blinked. “You mean you felt the same?”

He couldn’t quite believe that. Nobody could have tied someone up in such a fuzzy, hazy state.

“It’s different for the rigger,” Bruce said. “But it’s just as good.” He worked his bare feet under Clint’s thigh. “I had you there. Nothing else mattered for a little while.”

“But you _liked_ that?” Clint said, a bit incredulous. It sounded like such a drag—Clint had felt how he’d been Bruce’s _only_ focus for so long, and seriously, that must have been tiresome with Clint basically dozing off the whole time. Boring. Right? How selfless could anyone get?

“You have no idea,” Bruce murmured. “It was everything I wanted.”

Clint blinked again. What had Bruce said before? _Sleeping with you without the sex._

He tried to imagine what it could be like to have sex while being in such a state. The thought was equal parts terrifying and fascinating. He wasn’t sure he wanted or could get aroused like this. But he didn’t need to. He didn’t want to. He’d never felt so content, so hazy, so _sated_ before. Never felt so deep and so warm an afterglow.

“You’re a genius,” he said, a bit bewildered.

Bruce laughed softly. “Where did that come from?”

“You knew—you _knew_ I’d like it.”

“I hoped you would,” Bruce corrected, smiling. “I’m glad you did.”

He sipped a bit of tea and looked at him. “So you did like it— _all_ of it?”

Clint almost shrugged again—he wasn’t made of glass, after all. But Bruce looked so concerned about the tiniest details that Clint nodded, without really knowing why.

“I…” he said. “I don’t know. Still have to process it—I didn’t think… I didn’t think it’d turn into _that._ Whatever it was.”

“Of course,” Bruce said softly. “What about me holding you down? Like we did yesterday?”

Clint gave him a half-smile. “Yeah,” he said. “That was great. Just. Great.” He drank a bit of warm tea, then looked up. “Should I be liking this? I mean—doesn’t it make me… I don’t know… isn’t it a bad thing?”

“No,” Bruce said. “Like I said, I’m not forcing you down. You’re the one allowing me to do it.”

And for some reason, Clint got it, then. This _was_ all about trust—about fleshing it out, through ropes, through the weight of someone’s body, through the simple fact of closing his eyes and letting go. And it worked both ways. Sure, Clint was the one being tied up and held down; but he knew only too well that Bruce would have never _dared_ doing any of it if he hadn’t felt comfortable enough to try it—if he hadn’t been sure Clint wasn’t lying about being okay with it.

Yet this was also about Bruce taking control. About Bruce being on top and not being the most helpless person in the room for once. Bruce getting to set his own pace and make things the way he wanted to make them.

“You’re a genius,” Clint repeated dreamily.

Bruce gave a little laugh, somehow embarrassed. “I didn’t invent this, you know. I just—”

Clint kissed him.

Bruce smiled against his lips, and kissed back. And there was only one thought left in Clint’s mind—he wanted to do it again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting!


	2. Chapter 2

 

_“Hawkeye, do you read?”_

“Loud and clear,” Clint yelled in his earpiece.

 _“What?”_ Steve said.

“I said loud and—Hulk, for chrissakes, pipe down!”

Hulk, who’d just roared at the sky in exulting victory after tearing apart an umpteenth Doombot, snorted then shrugged so hard he almost threw Clint off his back.

“Not cool,” Clint groaned, climbing back up. He poked at Hulk’s skull under the bushy black hair. “Seriously, dude, you’re gonna make me deaf. I was deaf once. It wasn’t fun.”

“Whiny,” Hulk snorted.

 _“Whiny?”_ Clint said indignantly, shooting what was probably the last Doombot out of the sky like an afterthought. “I’ll show you whiny!”

“Cupid wants to fight?” Hulk grinned.

“I’m already on your back, man, I totally have the upper hand here and—hey—hey _no!_ Not upside d—aaaw, arrows.”

 _“Clint, everything okay?”_ Steve asked.

Not everyone on the team was happy letting their most breakable member hitch a ride on the Hulk’s back, but this battle had just proved that the Archer and the Beast made for a valuable duo.

“Everything’s just peachy,” Clint groaned, trying to straighten up and failing, dangling there. Hulk was holding both his feet firmly in one hand, and there wasn’t much he could do.

Kate sounded mostly amused about it. _“Are you picking a fight with the Hulk?”_

“I’m going to pick a fight with Tony if he doesn’t design me a quiver which actually holds the arrows inside,” Clint answered with as much dignity as he could muster.

_“Are you upside down right now?”_

God, they spent way too much time together. “Am not.”

“Is too,” Kurt laughed, appearing with a _BAMF!_ over Hulk’s head and disappearing again as the big guy tried to catch him. “Next time I’ll bring a camera!” he yelled from a nearby rooftop.

Hulk let Clint go with a snort.

“Does this mean the battle’s over?” Clint yelled back, straightening up in the rubble.

 _“Yeah, I’m calling it,”_ Steve answered. _“Good work, everyone.”_

Kurt waved at Clint, then vanished again. Clint sighed and looked up at Hulk. “Seriously, man. There’s arrows all over the place now.”

“Hulk help,” Hulk said in a conciliating tone, carefully picking up the arrows which looked like toothpicks in his big hands. He didn’t break a single one as he put them back in the quiver.

Iron Man flew past, slow and low to check on everyone, and Clint saluted him. Then he turned back to Hulk. “Wanna stay for the debrief?”

Hulk huffed, then shook his head. Clint didn’t blame him. “Wanna give me a ride to the mansion, then?”

The big guy grinned at him this time, and Clint climbed back on his shoulders in two jumps.

 

*

 

Hulk started changing back as they approached the mansion. Clint jumped on the ground, then started walking by his side, getting ready to catch him if he fell; he was getting wobblier with each step, and his left hand grabbed his shredded pants to keep them from falling down as he went. Eventually, he turned back completely into a very sleepy-looking Bruce, whose arm Clint looped around his shoulder to keep him upright.

“Hey,” he said.

They were just at the mansion’s door. “Bruce? You with me?”

Bruce didn’t answer, eyes glazed and unfocused, head lolling from side to side.

“Okay, let’s put you to bed,” Clint murmured. “Coming through,” he announced as they stepped inside.

Kate and Tony were already there; they stepped aside to let them in. “Is he okay?” Tony asked.

“Just a bit groggy is all.”

“Are _you_ okay?” Kate asked, eyeing the dust and blood sticking to his skin.

“I’m fine,” Clint said. “Be right back.”

He helped Bruce up the stairs and towards the bedrooms. Bruce was almost unconscious by the time they were there, but he still let out a slight moan of relief when they entered the darkened, peaceful room. He was covered in dust, but it’d have to wait; he was dead on his feet.

Clint let him sit down on the bed, gripping his right hand tight. Bruce fumbled a bit awkwardly until he managed to draw back the covers; he slipped under the fresh sheets with a sigh, and turned his head into the pillow.

“You’re okay, man,” Clint said softly. He leaned down and gave him a light kiss, squeezing his hand one last time before letting go. “Get some rest.”

He left the door ajar and went down the stairs, even though he wouldn’t have minded curling up by Bruce’s side and staying there in the dark with him.

 

*

 

In the split second before he opened his eyes, Clint heard tinkering and muffled voices— _kitchen they’re in the kitchen and it’s late—_ registered the strange darkness in the room— _lights turned off they left him there after he drifted off mid-debrief—_ and felt the hand on his shoulder— _warm fingers calloused tips Bruce. Bruce._ Bruce.

“Shit,” he muttered, straightening up. _Bow, quiver, check—sore and stiff but not injured—stand down._ “Did I fall asleep? Sorry I left you upstairs, I didn’t—”

Bruce put his hand on Clint’s mouth, then smiled, fond and a bit mocking. “It’s okay,” he said, removing his hand.

Clint looked at him; Bruce was still dusty and weary, wrapped in a blanket, but he didn’t look like he might collapse anymore. “The others?” he asked under his breath.

Clint made his _nothing to worry about_ face. Bruce nodded, eyes flickering at Clint’s cuts and bruises. “How about a shower?” he murmured.

Clint smiled and got up, looping an arm around Bruce’s shoulder to press him close. “Now that’s what I call dirty talk, Banner.”

They went back upstairs together, Clint shucking off his clothes as he went, and slipped into the shower—which was much smaller than the ones at Stark Tower. Clint kinda liked it better that way. They were too tired to actually do anything; they just turned on the warm stream and stood leaning against each other, barely finding enough energy to actually clean themselves, letting the water carry away the blood and dust. Clint knew this was also a way for Bruce to see by himself that Clint wasn’t injured.

“You got pretty banged up.”

“Just bruises. S’okay.”

“Did—” Bruce wasn’t looking at him. “Did Hulk…”

“He was awesome,” Clint said. “He helped me pick up my arrows. Gave me a ride.”

Bruce nodded, too tired to express his relief in any other way. They put on underwear—the mansion was stocked full with spare clothes—and stumbled out of the tiny bathroom; the bedroom was on the other side of the corridor, and Natasha was coming up the stairs as they crossed the hallway.

“Hey,” Clint said vaguely, unsure of her reaction.

“You left your clothes on the stairs,” was all she said. “Good night, doctor.”

“Sorry,” Clint answered as Bruce said, “’Night,” but then they were in the velvety darkness of the bedroom closing the door behind them, and Bruce was warm and solid under him and nothing else mattered and Clint was asleep already.

 

*

 

The sun was already high in the sky when Clint came to. He could tell Bruce was awake too, but neither of them felt like moving.

This was by _far_ the best after-battle morning Clint ever had.

“Hey,” he mumbled, pressing against Bruce’s back.

Bruce hummed a little in answer. He entwined their fingers and squeezed hard, with a long shudder. Clint kissed him between his shoulder blades, and closed his eyes for another long minute.

“I was thinking,” he said eventually.

Bruce took a deep, peaceful breath. “Yeah?”

“Yesterday night. You were all… fuzzy.”

“Mmh,” Bruce acknowledged. “Was really nice having you there. Thank you.”

Clint thought of Bruce waking up on his own, and his heart clenched. He remembered the way he’d felt at the end of their rope session—this extreme vulnerability which had bloomed into this hazy state of well-being, all good, but only because Bruce was there to catch him. No one had ever been there to catch Bruce.

“I think I wanna try the ropes again,” Clint said.

Bruce breathed deeply again, then turned round to face Clint, smiling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There was another lazy, perfect silence. Clint closed his eyes.

“What does he make of it?” he asked.

“Who?” Bruce said under his breath.

“Hulk.”

“Oh.” Bruce thought about it for a while. “It’s strange. I can always feel him push and stir—but when I tied you up… He was gone. No—he’d blended in. As though—I did exactly what he wanted, so he didn’t need to push anymore.”

There was a silence.

“You know, we could—we _should,_ ” Bruce began, “try the other way around. We should do it at least once. So you know how it feels.”

Clint opened his eyes and looked at him. “You said you couldn’t let yourself be tied up.”

Bruce kept his eyes closed. “Maybe with you, I could.”

There was another silence. Clint inched forward and kissed him, a light chaste kiss on the lips, and Bruce pushed his head in the crook of Clint’s neck.

“Back then,” Clint murmured. “What made you think bondage could help at all?”

“I needed to have control,” Bruce murmured. “Or to sink down—to center myself, like you did. It didn’t work either way. All I was really looking for was an out, and there wasn’t any.”

“If I tied you up, would it still be about that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Bruce’s hand found Clint’s and squeezed it. “I guess we’ll see.”

 

*

 

Bruce’s wrists were already brought together. Clint thought for a while, then made him cross them behind his back and carefully did his first knot.

“Too tight?”

“No,” Bruce said softly.

“Oh—the scissors.”

Clint went to get them, then came back. Bruce was breathing deeply and a bit too quickly; his bound hands were gripping the opposite forearms. They were back at the apartment; he was already shirtless, sitting on the bed this time. He looked already too vulnerable, thin and tied up only in his boxers, and Clint swallowed the lump in his throat.

He sat in front of him, framed his face, and kissed him. “You’re okay,” he said.

Bruce nodded against him, with a deep sigh. “Yes,” he murmured. “I am.”

“Do we have to… not talk?” Clint asked. “I mean—is that a thing? Last time was great, don’t get me wrong—just, I’ve never tied anyone up while trying to make them feel… y’know, good. So if we could talk—”

“Of course we can talk,” Bruce said. He exhaled, then smiled. “You’re the rigger; you call the shots.”

“But would you like it better if I stayed silent?”

Bruce thought about it for a while. “No,” he mumbled. “I think—” Another deep breath. “Think it might help, actually.”

“Okay—great,” Clint said. “So, here comes what I learned on Youtube last night.”

Bruce laughed, admittedly a bit nervously, but it was still nice to hear.

“Hope I didn’t fuck up and watch a knitting video instead,” Clint went on, looping the rope around Bruce’s shoulders and upper arms. “I’d say there’s a twelve percent chance this is gonna end in an accidental cardigan.”

Bruce chuckled again and crossed his legs; Clint tied them up so they’d stay that way. “That’s apparently called a frogtie,” he said. “Sounds French, if you ask me.” Clint slowly pushed him down so he’d lay on his back; he was flexible enough to do this with his legs crossed, all the more since they were on the bed this time. “Okay, there we go. Doing okay?”

“Doing great,” Bruce said, eyes crinkling. “Thank you.”

“You want a pillow?”

Bruce shook his head, smiling. Clint leaned down to kiss him, then pulled back a little and took him in. Bruce was breathing slow and deep in the ropes, still just on the wrong side of too thin; nothing a few pancakes wouldn’t solve, though.

“You look great like that,” Clint told him.

Bruce laughed a little, but it didn’t sound self-deprecating as it sometimes—too often—did. He’d been right; it was different for the rigger. Clint felt calm, but not in a hazy way this time; he had a chance to prove Bruce he was safe, and he wasn’t messing it up. Clint vaguely wondered if everyone did bondage like that. He didn’t know much about it, but he was pretty sure this usually was about inflicting a feeling of powerlessness—of helplessness. About a game of dominance and submission. This, these ropes slowly coiling around Bruce, was the softest thing, the gentlest thing he’d ever done.

He reinforced his frogtie, making several loops so the ropes wouldn’t cut across the flesh of Bruce’s thighs and calves; he had a little slack left, so he connected it to the middle of Bruce’s chest harness, which was really more decorative than anything.

“So, I’m pretty much done. Check it out—no cardigan.” He ran a hand through Bruce’s curls. “Your blood flow okay?”

Bruce nodded, closing his eyes.

“Can you, like, move at all?”

Bruce swallowed. He tried, pulled on the ropes, clenched his thighs and turned on one side, then another. He reopened his eyes, a little breathless, and looked at Clint with something which looked like fear.

“No,” he breathed. He swallowed and closed his eyes again. “I’m alright. I’m alright.”  

"Of course you are," Clint said, throat suddenly tight. Shit, what a moron!He’d said this to mimic what Bruce had done last time—he’d liked this, to feel that he truly couldn’t break free, that nothing left was up to him—but obviously, there was nothing positive about this for Bruce.

“Hey,” Clint said. “Hey. Can you wait until I untie you? Tell me no and I’ll cut you free right now. It’s okay, I can buy more ropes. I’m crazy rich.”

Bruce laughed a little and took a deep breath. “I’m alright,” he said, and this time it didn’t sound like he was trying to convince himself. He smiled. “Can you—can I stay like this for a minute?”

“You’re sure?” Clint asked, worried.

“Yeah,” Bruce exhaled. “Yes. It’s good. It’s okay. It’s you.”

Clint smiled, a bit sadly. He framed Bruce’s face and kissed his forehead. Bruce smiled some more, tilted his head back and sought Clint’s lips with his. When they parted, he looked a little calmer.

Clint kept touching him—they both needed it, very much. The air between them felt too clear and cutting. Funny how a few ropes could turn the world into crystal. Clint ran his hands over Bruce’s shoulders, sides, and thighs; Bruce’s abs quivered when Clint’s fingers brushed his stomach, and his mouth opened when Clint’s fingers brushed his lips. Clint remembered something he’d seen in a video the night before; he grabbed the middle of the harness, then began to lift Bruce’s upper body off the bed, just for a second.

“That okay?” he asked, suddenly worried.

“Yeah,” Bruce breathed. “Oh yeah.”

 _Oh._ Clint did it again, harder, and Bruce made a sound like the breath had been knocked out of him—but his mouth was still open and his eyes still closed, so Clint guessed it _was_ okay. He kissed him as he slowly put him back down, then ran his hands on his chest, rubbing his neck and shoulders again. That was when he noticed that Bruce’s boxers were definitely getting a bit tented.

Without thinking, he palmed him and massaged him through the thin cotton—but Bruce arched and gasped, straining against the ropes, scaring the hell out of Clint. “Fuck—sorry—should have asked—”

“No,” Bruce panted, “no no no, it’s good, just—bit more reactive than usual.” He opened his eyes and smiled, breathless. “Sorry.”

Clint hesitantly rubbed him again, and Bruce closed his eyes with a little hum. Clint didn’t want to focus on that right now, but Bruce wasn’t rock hard anyway; he didn’t look like he expected to come. This was just a way among many to make him feel good. Clint didn’t overthink it and added it to the list of Bruce’s parts he wanted to touch right now, before leaning down to kiss his neck and nibble at his ear.

He kissed him again, quick and soft, lifted him up and dragged him in his lap; Bruce heaved a deep sigh, then opened up when Clint’s mouth found his again. Clint squeezed him tight, closing his eyes. He could hold him as long as he could. He had him. God, he could see now why Bruce liked it. This wasn’t boring. This was the opposite of boring. And this was even scary, a bit, too, just like being in the ropes had been; Clint had given himself entirely to Bruce, and now, Bruce was giving himself entirely to him. This was quite the responsibility, and if Clint had known Bruce a bit less, he would have been horribly nervous about screwing this up. Especially since Bruce still wasn’t quite entirely relaxed. Obviously, he didn’t feel this like Clint had, but he appreciated it anyway—being exposed to a buried horror and slowly rewriting it with kindness; it must be a good thing. Clint didn’t blame him for staying tense, though.

God, they were still kissing. How long had it been? Clint didn’t want to stop. No one had ever trusted him like that. And for _Bruce Banner_ to trust anyone like that—Jesus. Clint could feel how painful, how hard it was for him. The effort he was putting into it.

He let him lie down on his back again, then just lay on his side next to him, curling up around him, and stayed there for a little while. This was the same kind of feeling Clint got giving him head—wanting to take care of him, to make him feel good, to make everything perfect. Just for him. Just for a bit of time. All about him. All good.

Bruce hadn’t reopened his eyes in a while; Clint was a little surprised to hear him mumble, “Left arm’s going a little numb…”

“Okay,” Clint said softly. “Come here.” This was to be expected with Bruce lying down on his folded arms; but maybe it was also his way of saying he had enough. Clint tugged at the harness to make Bruce sit up again, then started to untie him. It took him longer than he thought and he cast worried glances at the scissors, ready to use them in a heartbeat, but there was no need. Bruce stayed calm and even smiled slightly at Clint's efforts. When he was done, he pulled Bruce close, and they breathed together for a while.

“Arm’s good?”

“All good,” Bruce murmured, and he wrapped Clint into his arms to squeeze him tight. “God. Clint.” He sniffed, then let out a shaky laugh. “God.”

Clint felt like hugging him for hours, and Bruce must felt the same since it was pretty much exactly what they did. This was surprisingly draining, for both parties.

Clint got him under the covers at some point—he remembered how cold he’d felt coming back up—and they just held each other, smiling, sighing, and didn’t move. Everything perfect, indeed, in the faint smell of hemp and the soft darkness of the room—the sun had set without either of them noticing.

 

*

 

Sometimes there were bad days.

When Bruce got angry and almost lost it (shouldn’t have watched the news) and then spent nearly an hour with his head in his hands, trying to calm down, to convince himself not to leave, maybe, to entertain the illusion—he called it an illusion—that people could be safe around him, that this wouldn’t be ripped away from him, that he could stay, that he would stay, and everything would be fine. Clint used to feel awkward and stupid on those days, when his attempts at reassurance always sounded clumsy even though Bruce never dismissed them—only nodded with an absent expression.

This time, after Bruce had spent several long, painful minutes sitting on the couch with Clint next to him, he poked him with his toe. “You okay?”

Bruce took a deep breath, then nodded, eyes on the ground. “Yeah,” he mumbled. He let out a nasty, bitter laugh. “All good.” He ran his hands over his face, sighing.

Clint poked him again and simply asked, “Wanna bust out the ropes?”

Bruce looked up at him, a little surprised. But then, he smiled, a slow small smile.

“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “Um—yes. Maybe I’d like that.”

Clint instantly got up, took off his shirt and sat on the carpet while Bruce went to fetch the ropes. He sat behind Clint as usual and put his hands on his shoulders.

“Can I…”

He paused for a long time. Then he almost spat, “Can I be rough?”

Clint froze. Bruce instantly said “No—sorry. This isn’t…” He got up. “This is not a good idea. I’m just going to take a walk.”

“Rough how?” Clint asked softly.

“Like a selfish asshole,” Bruce said through gritted teeth. “Forget it. I’m sorry. I should have never said this.”

Clint swallowed. He wanted to tell Bruce he could do what he wanted, he really did, but he acutely remembered how _fragile_ he’d felt last time, and the idea of being… of being what, for that matter? Manhandled? Slapped? Left alone?

“I’m not saying yes,” Clint said, getting up to go to him.

He hugged him from behind, and Bruce couldn’t help leaning against him, turning his head to hide his face from Clint.

“But I’m not saying no,” Clint said. “Not yet. To be honest, I probably will. Just… help me out. What did you have in mind?”

Bruce said nothing.

“You want to hurt me?” Clint murmured.

Bruce tensed in his arms. “No,” he said in a voice which sounded like he was about to cry. “No. I don’t… _no.”_ He sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. Then he turned to face Clint, except he was still looking down, unable to meet his gaze.

Clint waited, slowly scratching Bruce’s scalp, rubbing circles in his hips with the thumb of his other hand. Bruce sighed. “No. It’s okay. It’s all gone now.”

“What’s gone?”

Bruce sighed again, sounding like he was forcefully pushing the air out of him this time. “The Hulk,” he said.

Clint frowned at him.

“I told you last time, he likes me doing this,” Bruce said very quickly, like the words prickled his mouth. “He likes me behaving like him. And when he’s that close—I would have… I wanted to pin you down. To be _mean._ But I don’t want to do that.”

“Not even a little?”

“No,” Bruce repeated strongly. “This isn’t me. This is him. But he doesn’t get a say in this—I'm trying to reach out, I really am, but this—he _doesn’t_ get to reach that part of my—he doesn’t…” He had to stop, because his voice had faltered on the last word and tears were welling in his eyes.

Clint hugged him again, hugged him _tight,_ and Bruce pushed his face against his shoulder, gripping Clint’s shirt hard, like he was afraid the floor would vanish under his feet. When he breathed in, it was in a rushed gasp, which turned into a sour laugh on the way out.

“I’m sorry.”

“Tie me up,” Clint said.

Bruce looked up with wet eyes. “What? Clint—” He took a shaky breath. “I can’t. Not now.”

“I need you to tie me up right now,” Clint said with assurance. “I want to try something. We’ll stop at once if it’s not alright.”

Bruce blinked, but nodded, very hesitantly. Clint took his hand, then brought him back to the carpet, on which they both sat.

“Alright,” Clint said. He folded his arm and said, “Go on, strap it. Just the arm.”

Bruce looked so puzzled he was sort of forgetting to be sad. He took a long rope and tied up Clint’s arm so it would stay folded. He was so focused on doing his knots right that he only noticed very belatedly Clint intentionally wrapping another rope around Bruce’s ankle.

“What…”

He stopped, then looked up at Clint. And— _yes_ —there was the hint of a smile on his lips.

“What are you doing?

“Can’t you guess?” Clint said. “Better focus on securing that arm, Banner, or you’ll lose your advantage.”

Bruce did smile, then. Clint grinned back. “It’s alright to let off steam once in a while. But not if it makes you feel like a bully. So go ahead, try me—I promise I’m gonna fight back.”

“This is a bad idea,” Bruce said, but he did another knot on Clint’s arm. Clint’s grin widened, and he keep looping his rope around Bruce’s ankle—until Bruce grabbed his shoulders and pushed him down on the carpet.

“Like this?” he asked, still a bit hesitant but looking like he might enjoy himself if he only let it happen.

“Yeah, that's the spirit,” Clint said. He started wiggling and picking at his tied arm with his free one. “Bet I can undo this faster than you did it.”

Bruce outright grinned this time, then grabbed Clint’s ankles and started tying them together, instead of trying to stop him. He was being slower than usual, still uncertain, but his surprised cry turned into a laugh when Clint suddenly folded his legs to bring Bruce to him like a fisherman his fish. He grabbed a rope strewn on the floor and whipped it around Bruce’s torso when he was close enough. “Got you,” he said, tightening the loop. 

“You’re tying us both together,” Bruce snorted when Clint brought him even closer. Indeed, the other end of the rope he’d picked was stuck under Clint’s back. Oh well.

“Don’t care,” Clint decided, making the knot, “at least I’ll—whoa!”

Bruce made them both roll around on the floor and wound up on top; he paused, but Clint snorted, wrapped the slack of his rope around Bruce’s ankle, then twisted his own wrist to loop the rope around his forearm and tug. “Ha! Can’t back off.”

“You can’t either,” Bruce smiled. It was true; Clint’s right arm was still folded and caught in a tie, so he had no limbs free left. He bucked under Bruce’s weight, then reluctantly let go of the rope around his ankle to wiggle his left arm free; he then groped for another rope which he threw behind Bruce’s back to bring their bodies closer.

“You’re—tangling us even more,” Bruce panted, arching against it.

“Am I?” Clint grinned, bringing him closer with a sharp tug which pressed Bruce’s mouth against his own.

The kiss was slow at first, but grew into more of a challenge when Bruce took the opportunity to sneak a rope underneath Clint’s shoulders and pin his left arm against his chest.

"Oh so  _that's_ how it is, uh," Clint panted. 

But when Bruce kissed him again, Clint turned tables and pinned _him_ to the floor—and literally fell back into the kiss since their bodies were tied so tightly together. He’d also almost headbutted him, and they broke into breathy laughter.

“One of us—might get hurt,” Bruce breathed, and Clint panted back, “S’okay—got plenty of bandaids—” and Bruce laughed and said “Oh—okay then” and tugged at all the ropes he could reach to press their bodies together. Clint was delighted to find that the tie on his right arm was coming loose; he shook it free, then worked his arm under Bruce’s shoulder to press him close and kiss him deeper, messier, and they rolled on their side again.

“Half-assed job, Banner,” he said.

“If you hadn’t half-untied it,” Bruce began, then laughed when Clint tugged at the ropes, saying, “Sorry, what was that?”

Bruce kept laughing, and suddenly it was like he couldn’t stop, and his laughter was contagious because they were tied together in such a ridiculous position and out of breath and wiggling together like caterpillars in the same cocoon.

“I am _so_ winning at this,” Clint said, which only made Bruce laugh harder, and they rolled on their other side, absolutely unable to untangle themselves or stop laughing, wrapped in each other’s arms, shaking, panting, wheezing, and kissing again between bursts of hilarity.

“How are we even going to—” Bruce panted, kissed him, “untie ourselves,” and Clint answered in gasps, “Should be done in a minute—or rather—” he glanced at the net of ropes, “—something like five hours,” and Bruce cracked up again and Clint squeezed him all the more, breathless and nearly crying with laughter.

“Oh God,” he wheezed, “oh _God,_ oh, my stomach hurts,” and Bruce was still laughing and Clint said without thinking, “Man, it’s good to hear you laugh,” and hugged him again, suddenly on the brink of tears, and sighed, “it’s  _good_ to hear you laugh.”

Bruce took a deep breath, still shaking with silent laughter as it went out. “Good to be laughing,” he murmured.

They were both trying to catch their breath. Bruce wriggled a little against Clint’s body, then let out another laugh. “Jesus, we’re _really_ tangled up.”

"Yeah, big time,” Clint said, and snorted, and they just sniggered together for a minute.

There was a breathless, comfortable silence.

 “Next time you feel like venting,” Clint said in his ear. “Remember you can.”

Bruce closed his eyes, smiled, and curled up around him as much as he could, straining against the ropes to wrap his arms around him. They weren’t tangled up _that_ tightly and they both knew it. Still, Bruce said, “Looks like we’re gonna stay this way for a little while.”

Clint smiled at him, catching his breath.

“Already knew that,” he murmured, and they kissed again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so that little companion piece finds its end. Pure fluff usually isn't my style, but after 140k of miserable angst and all-around evilness, it was nice to give Bruce and Clint a bit of a breather. ^^ 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, kudoing and commenting! My next long fic has entered beta'ing and should be starting next week or so; hope I'll see you there. :D


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